Chapter 17 Liam
Seven seats.
Seven goddamn seats.
The freshman eight had cremated Kingswell, and the Riverside bleachers were still vibrating from the eruption. I stood near the boathouse, arms crossed, watching our guys climb out of their shell like conquering heroes. Remy was down there, slapping backs, and grinning like he’d won the lottery.
Then someone grabbed Remy by the waist.
“No, no, no—” Remy’s protest cut off as three guys hoisted him up.
The whole crew converged, laughing, chanting his name.
“REMY! REMY! REMY!”
They launched him off the dock.
He hit the water with a spectacular splash, came up sputtering and cursing, but he was laughing.
The whole team crew roared.
That’s the tradition—win big, throw your coxswain in. Remy climbed back onto the dock, soaked and victorious, still running his mouth.
This was what it looked like when the underdogs bit back.
The day had been a war.
Back and forth, race after race, neither side pulling away clean. Kingswell took the doubles—Marcus and Collins grinding out a tight win over Ortiz and Sheffield. We answered with the JV four. They clawed back in the varsity pairs, Derek Shaw rowing like a machine.
Then we took the fours.
Tit for tat. Blow for blow.
And now it all came down to us.
The varsity singles. Me and Alex. Last race of the day.
I rolled my shoulders, trying to loosen the tension that had been building since this morning. The wind had picked up, cutting across the water in sharp gusts. Gray sky. Choppy river. The kind of conditions that punished mistakes.
Good. Let it be ugly. I don’t need pretty. I just need to win.
Hale appeared beside me, coffee cup in hand. He watched the officials setting up the start line, his expression calm, unreadable.
“How you feeling, Moore?”
“Ready.”
He nodded, took a sip. “River’s rough today. Gonna reward efficiency, punish muscle.” He glanced at me. “You know what that means.”
“Don’t fight it. Read it.”
“That’s right.” He turned to face me. “Harrington’s gonna be clean out there. Technical. That’s his game. You try to out-power him in this chop, you’ll burn out by the thousand.” He paused. “But if you stay smooth, stay long, let the boat run... you’ve got something he doesn’t.”
“What’s that?”
Hale’s mouth twitched. “Grit.” He clapped my shoulder once. “Trust your work.”
He walked off toward the launch, and I watched him go, his words settling into my chest.
Trust your work.
“LIAM!” Noah’s voice cut through the chaos. He stood with one foot on the bench behind him, waving both arms. “DESTROY HIM!”
Beside him, Emily cupped her hands around her mouth. “Good luck, Liam!”
Emily.
Guilt surged through me. I had to give this up. She was so good to me and I was having a secret affair in my mind with Alex. She deserved better and maybe after I beat Alex for good, I could move on. Maybe the obsession would end and I could be with her like a normal guy.
I pumped my fist at them.
Around them, students stomped the metal bleachers—dull metallic booms rolling across the water. A group held up a sign: 'MOORE POWER' in smudged blue paint, each letter bent at a different angle.
I took it in. The colors. The sound. The energy filling my chest—messy, but grounding.
Then my eyes drifted across the water.
Kingswell’s side looked catalog-perfect. Folded blankets. Coordinated fleece. Parents dressed like the regatta was a charity gala. Polished. Composed. Safe.
That’s what Alex chose. That’s what he’d always choose.
Hate him or want him. Commit to one.
Remy’s words from the locker room echoed in my skull. I’d made my choice. Anger. Focus. The ice-cold clarity of competition. That’s all this was. Two thousand meters to prove I belonged here. To prove I wasn’t just some scrappy scholarship kid who got lucky.
To prove—
My eyes found him before I could stop them.
Alex was on the Kingswell dock, crouched beside his single, adjusting his foot stretchers. Even from here I could see the tension in his shoulders, the careful precision of his movements. He was wearing the navy Kingswell uni, blond hair catching what little light broke through the clouds.
He looked up.
Our eyes met across the river.
And for one stupid, treacherous second, I didn’t see my rival.
I saw the boy from Brackett Lake. The one who’d looked at me like I was the only real thing in his whole polished world.
The one who’d leaned in that night on the dock, breath warm against my mouth, and made me feel like maybe I wasn’t crazy for wanting—
No.
I tore my gaze away.
Not him. Not now. Not ever.
I turned back toward the bleachers to shake off the heat crawling up my neck—and froze.
She was there.
Third row from the bottom, wedged between two students in oversized RSU hoodies. My mom. Dark hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, work jacket still on—the faded navy one from the hospital cafeteria, the one with the coffee stain on the sleeve she could never get out.
She’d driven three hours to be here. For a scrimmage. I didn’t even tell he about it.
How did she know?
She saw me looking and raised her hand in a small wave. Tired eyes and a proud smile that hit me somewhere deep in my chest.
She’s here.
My throat went tight.
This is why.
Not Alex. Not whatever tangled mess lived in my chest when I looked at him. This. My mom working doubles so I could be here. The small house back home with the leaky faucet she couldn’t afford to fix. The textbooks I bought used and the gas money I scraped together from summer shifts.
I wasn’t rowing for some rich boy who chose Kingswell over me.
I was rowing to get us out. To be something. To make every sacrifice she’d ever made mean something.
Hate him or want him.
Remy was wrong. I didn’t need to choose either.
I just had to beat him.
I gave my mom a small nod—I see you, I got this—and turned back toward the dock. My single waited at the water’s edge, burgundy and white. I crouched beside it, running my hands along the gunwales, feeling the familiar shape of it.
Two thousand meters. That’s all.
The officials called for singles to launch. I lifted my boat overhead, carried it to the water, and set it down with practiced ease. The river lapped against the hull.
I stepped in. Settled into the seat. Pushed off.
The world narrowed.
I rowed toward the start line with long, easy strokes, warming up my legs, finding my rhythm. The Riverside bleachers were a blur of burgundy on my left. Kingswell’s pristine crowd sat silent and watchful on the right.
And ahead of me—Alex.
He was already in position, blades squared, body still. I pulled up beside him, close enough to see the rise and fall of his chest. Close enough to see the way his jaw was set, the tension in his forearms, the slight tremor in his hands on the oars.
He looked over at me.
I looked back.
Neither of us spoke. There was nothing left to say. Everything that mattered was about to happen on the water.
The official’s launch motored into position. A megaphone crackled.
“Lanes are set. Single sculls, this is your final.”
I squared my blades. Rolled my shoulders. Let out a slow breath.
The Riverside bleachers had gone quiet. So had Kingswell’s. The wind died for a moment, like even the river was holding its breath.
I could hear my own heartbeat. Could feel the boat shifting beneath me, alive and waiting.
For Mom. For me. For everything.
The official raised the flag.
“Ready.”
Every muscle in my body coiled.
Alex’s eyes stayed forward. Mine did too.
Silence.
Pure, heavy silence.
And then over the loudspeaker, “Row!”